Roleplay
by Deliciously
Summary: Earning the man's trust required a compromise. Set before 'No Russian'. Slash. Makarov/Allen, oneshot.


Yo, COD fags. This is slash, just so you know – you might want to backtrack if it's not your thing.

**A/N**: Second fic on FFnet in nearly a year – hooah, baby! A real big achievement for me, if you read my tiny profile. This was written in the middle of another COD slash fic – a pleasant distraction, if you will. Written in one day and self-edited in a couple. My thanks extend to the lovely Skybot4; her charming way of conveying Makarov/Allen to me plus her little fic helped the progress. Do let me know if there's glaring mistakes. And let me just say that Makarov is the sexiest fucking terrorist I've ever seen.

**Pairing**: V. Makarov/J. Allen. Semi-consensual; shifty thoughts happening. No rape.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own COD: MW2 but this smutty attempt at a plot point is mine.

* * *

Private Joseph Allen knew earning Makarov's trust would be a hardy challenge. _'Prepare for anything.'_ Even with a few full days of training and steeling himself to act, to become 'Alexei Borodin', those few days weren't enough.

It's just that he didn't quite expect this scenario.

Allen is backed against the hotel room's chaste wall, squatting with hands tied securely behind him with a coarse fabric substitute for rope, his handsome face a little flushed, nerves a wrecking ball.

Makarov, dressed in a diplomatic black suit, kneels down in front of him, breaching his personal space. He leers at the younger man, surveying him with an intimacy he reserved for a person's last moments.

Allen's tongue darts out to wet his lips, briefly nipping his bottom lip in anticipation as Makarov speaks to him quietly. The words equated to a splash of cold water – and refusal was out of the question. Allen visibly shrinks away from the other man. He looks up and replies with, "Okay, yeah - and what else?" Allen's eyes lock with Makarov's two-tone gaze. Truth: his eyes were fascinating. He was captivated by them indefinitely, and it unnerved him that doing so could compromise his groomed disguise. Makarov appeared to read him like a book.

The American retains a gasp as Makarov swiftly crooks his neck and bites his ear; Allen could call it gratifying, but he'd be lying if he said it didn't hurt. Hasty English orders confront him before a tongue runs along his ear delicately. Allen nods subconsciously, bunching his fists behind his back, flexing his fingers.

Joseph begins to writhe as hands gripped his neck, his shoulders instinctually tensing from the possible threat of strangulation. A thumb strokes up his jaw firmly, as if easing his worries and the two hands tilt his head back for him, and Allen closes his eyes as he yields a large measure of his trust to a very wanted, highly dangerous man.

"Alexei - moan," Makarov demands, and Allen winces before obeying, a small noise rumbling his throat. Makarov quickly dives in and marks the side of Allen's throat with a purpling bruise, marking territory fiercely, and a moan surfaces past Allen's lips before he can even think of containing it.

Age came with experience, and Allen felt like the older man had a shit load of that. Never mind Allen was more than 20 years his junior. Makarov knew what he was doing – that in itself chilled and excited Allen at the same time. The Russian was lucky that he looked younger than his years.

"Remember who you are," Makarov says languidly, sliding his hands down to Allen's button-up shirt (a decision in clothing Allen debated about before giving up and settling) and undoing the first few buttons, which reveals the tip of his tattoos. The allusive double entendre doesn't escape Allen.

Allen hesitates, tempted to clear his throat for the act. He opts to gulp noisily. "Makarov... please," he whispers, sucking on his lips briefly as he felt the man's steely gaze on his face, ducking his head to the side. "Don't hurt me." Once Allen says it, his eyes widen, shocked at the sincerity of his own voice.

Makarov grit his teeth at hearing the younger man's voice whimper in a perfect pitch. He lifts Allen's chin and kisses him, gently and firmly, and Joseph scrunches his eyes up in a scornful way, but moans softly into Makarov's mouth as a tongue slides against his with a shocking tenderness. Allen struggles to return the kiss, caught midway between the novel sensation of the man's mouth and the prideful need to impress Makarov.

The older man leans, pressing Allen squarely to the wall, kissing him solidly now. His hands snake around Allen's neck, thumbs stroking into his hair sporadically.

Damn it if Allen could shut himself up. He was losing oxygen fast from the confident way Makarov kissed. He tries chalking his moans up to his inexperience; a defence mechanism, but he knows better than to delude himself.

The Russian pauses to let Allen breathe, foreheads touching, and then resuming after a second. Allen finds himself trying to liberate his wrists of the improvised cuffs – to escape, to fulfil his need to _touch_, to _feel_, to have his hands bracing against something, to be frantically ripping clothes off of both of them...

Makarov breaks the kiss once more, hissing against Allen's lips with his hands now cupping the sides of Allen's face: "Right now, what are you?"

"A slave," Joseph murmurs, his whole body responding as if drugged, rapid heartbeat in his ears.

"Good."

His whole body jumps as Makarov jerks him up on his knees, now kneeling with shoulder blades still pressed to the wall as the Russian slants his head while shutting his eyes and nuzzles the base of Allen's neck, inhaling deeply. Makarov is glad Allen smells good, almost intoxicatingly so. A foreign hand shoots down the open shirt, past the tattoo and then waistband of his pants, kneading Allen's bare half-hard arousal. Allen's eyes widen with disbelief as he met Makarov's piercing stare. The man licks his lips for Allen to see, and Allen fails to suppress the tiny whine in his throat, realising all this time Makarov had likely been watching his every move, every reaction.

A series of surprised, choked gasps gain intensity with each tugging stroke, Joseph's senses inflamed as he struggles to simplify the situation - he had a Grade-A terrorist kneeling over his leg, his bite marks imprinted into the dent of his shoulder, and one of his hands jerking him off. Makarov begins to stroke himself with his other hand through his clothes listening to Allen's filthy noises.

"A-aah—" Allen is cut off as Makarov silences him by open-mouth kissing him, sucking his tongue, his bottom lip – anything to swallow the pleased noises.

Then Makarov says, "Name," to the open flesh of his neck. He can taste Allen on his tongue, a sweet yet somewhat harsh taste. Makarov doesn't like it, instead finding comfort in the power he had over this man, this American indulging his whim. He openly chuckles, and Allen wistfully thinks, that's an earnest sound only one of the good guys would make.

Allen pants into the cut of Makarov's neck, doing everything in his power to _shut the fuck up_ but that hand was still stroking him, thumb doing that one thing that felt _so good_—"Ngh—!"

"Name!" Makarov whispers harshly into his ear, brimming with a demanding fury, fisting Allen's cock harder than he meant to.

"Makarov,_ please_—" Allen cries, a pleasured gasp following his words. He repeats what Makarov said to say several minutes ago, just wanting to get it over with, "—fuck me."

Makarov snickered. "You're pretty good with your..." he casts his eyes up and down the man's body at length, "...voice, Borodin. You have done this before."

Allen refocuses, narrowing his eyes, attempting a dirty glare at his now-superior. Makarov chuckles, withdrawing his hand and throwing Allen on the ground behind him with care enough not to hurt him, Allen propping on his knees to support his weight and hands remaining fixed behind his back.

"Wait," Joseph gasps, flexing his arms and hands urgently. He says, "Please?" in the most humiliating way he can, breathing out Makarov's name as an afterthought.

The other man smiles slyly. "No," he says teasingly, sinking Allen's hopes. Makarov can't wipe the grin off his face at the cute little act as he undoes his pants and Allen's, yanking them out of the way, and proceeds to fuck Allen with little preparation.

Allen is winded by pain as he fights to adjust to Makarov's length inside him, managing to rasp, "Slower," before shuddering with a long moan as Makarov hit his prostate, unable to string together words to make sense, almost forgetting both his names. Fingers dig into his hips, but it's bearable next to the ripe pain of being taken almost raw.

Soon, the air is filled with pants as they fuck, the occasional needy groan causing Makarov to thrust in deeper. Allen resents the slow pace, discovering now at firsthand Makarov's cruel nature. He witnesses Makarov throw his head back and growl viciously, but unclearly, thanks to the side of Allen's face pressed flush against the floor. The sheer fact it was coming from Makarov makes his blood run cold, though conversely, a lustful pulse shoots down to his painfully hard cock.

Eventually, a deliberate thrust forces Allen to come first with a gasp that wore away to a whine, body falling limp. Makarov follows a few seconds later without a word. Several minutes later Allen finds himself untied, and Makarov skilfully fastening his pants and shirt for him in a sort of humble, bewildering gesture of... well, Allen could only come up with 'what the fuck'.

_Role playing_. Allen snorts as Makarov throws him a wry look. He was thankful that seducing Makarov wasn't his primary objective. Apparently, trust-earning is as simple as a free fuck.


End file.
